room 304, tongue and evening 

smiling, shedding tears   the knife at my wrist
the voice I believed in   laughing with lies   a morbid victim

staring at the red fluid that flows through the tube and crying
I cannot even sever my own life   a morbid victim

the white room dyed scarlet, the wound becoming deeper, deeper, deeper

bound to these crowds of people   there's nothing I can do with this sense of loneliness
perhaps tomorrow won't even come   a night of my sixteenth year
the night is frightening   the night is cold   so many nights   I'm drowning in night
perhaps tomorrow won't even come   the spring of my sixteenth year

the victim has no tongue

locked up without light   on a morning of my twelth year
I, somewhat vegetarian   the kitten, kind of rare*

mother, father, dyed scarlet, the wound becoming deeper, deeper, deeper

bound to these crowds of people   there's nothing I can do with this sense of loneliness
perhaps tomorrow won't even come   a night of my sixteenth year
the night is frightening   the night is cold   so many nights   I'm drowning in night
perhaps tomorrow won't even come   the spring of my sixteenth year
doing it quietly   my eyes closed   mother and father's expressions
no matter how much they laugh   or how much they cry   I will not return
my tears dried up   this cold night is my farewell   slashing my wrists
perhaps tomorrow won't even come   the spring of my sixteenth year